Little Lion Man
by novizia
Summary: "What can I trust if I can't trust my own eyes? And in front of me is the cold, dead body of my younger brother, the famous Sherlock Holmes. There is no hope for his return." After guilt eats away at Mycroft's conscience, he recalls a lifetime of memories he once shared with Sherlock. (Asperger's!Sherlock, will span many years)
1. The Fake Genius

I'm afraid.

I don't want her to unzip that body bag—I already know what is inside. The "truth." The news that I still can't bring myself to accept, not even now. The headline I read hours ago—_Suicide of the Fake Genius_—is in that bloody thing. My biggest mistake. My lifelong regret.

For a brief moment, I think I am ready. All current evidence points to the contrary—my trembling hands, my locked jaw…

"I'll… I'll do it quickly," Molly stammers. I don't move. I wish she would get it over with.

The smooth handle of my umbrella rests in my hand, and I gently tap the end of it against my shoe. I need something to hold onto, and this will have to suffice. I have nothing else. I have no one else to talk to. No one else to blame.

"… Are you sure about this?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Molly," I snap. I don't sound as furious or nervous as I feel. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. Regardless, my tone makes her bristle. In response, she reaches for the zipper and gently pulls on it—my eyes are already glued to the bag.

It takes everything in me to keep calm when I see him, there on that icy, steel slab.

I tap my umbrella against the floor now. Molly mistakes this for some other emotion, and she is going to close it up unless I stop her. "Not yet," I mutter. "Give me a moment, Ms Hooper."

Immediately, I start deducing his pale, lifeless body for something—anything—that could point me in the right direction. This isn't like him, I tell myself. He never gives up that easily. He must have left something behind. Perhaps he is still alive… But who am I joking?

What can I trust if I can't trust my own eyes? And in front of me is the cold, dead body of my younger brother, the famous Sherlock Holmes. There is no hope for his return.

Now I see no point in deducing. I have once more donned the role I was born into, and I become a brother once more. The dead man on the slab becomes a boy again. I want to smooth his bloodied hair. I want to retie his scarf, like I used to do before walking him to school. I want to hold his icy hand.

I feel my lips tighten into a line. I can't afford to let my thoughts show. Molly is quite emotional as it is.

"Yes, that's enough," I begin. I finally find it in myself to look away. "That's quite enough, Molly." I'm grateful when Molly rushes to zip up the bag. She sounds like she is going to cry. I let the umbrella's handle rest in the crick of my elbow and I gently pat my breast pocket in search for my cigarette box. I already know it's empty.

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft," Molly barely breathes. Her voice is just above a murmur. She isn't looking at me, but at Sherlock's corpse.

"Nothing to be sorry for, is there? There's nothing to be done," I reply, forcing a smile—the hollow smile that I've perfected. There is nothing she could have done differently. I want to tell her that, but I assume she already knows it. Meanwhile, my guilt is slowly eating me from the inside out. It has been for days, and I know it won't ever stop. If there was something that anyone could have done… It's hardly any use dwelling on mistakes.

"Do take care, won't you, Molly?" I mention as I walk through the door.

I stop after only a few steps. I thought I heard his familiar gait from down the hall, but I'm imagining it. And suddenly, the weight of the terrible mistake I made dawns on me at last. The responsibilities I thought I had shed years ago tug at my conscience, and I realize I was never truly free of them. Whether or not I acted the part, I was—_am_—Sherlock's brother. His caretaker, when we were children. His enemy, in the way that brothers can be enemies.

Since his birth, I have done nothing but worry about him. He always hated that.

My shoulders feel heavy underneath my coat. My feet can barely lift from the ground now… I'm not sure why I elected to see the body—for my own comfort, perhaps, to know that he was truly dead, and not trying to fool us all.

"What have I done, Sherlock," I mutter, not really to anyone. No one else is here.

It isn't until now that I finally realize what I've lost—what we've all lost. I know I'm not the only one. I recall my brother's dead body on the slab, his forehead crusted over with his own blood. I'm certain it will trouble me forever. Even now, I know I deserve it. For a moment, I close my eyes in hopes that I won't see him anymore. But there's no use now, is there?

Is there a more fitting punishment? To be forever tormented by the one person I was bound to look after?

Somehow, I have known for a long time that it would end this way. And yet, simultaneously, I never imagined that it would end like this.


	2. A Deducing Game

_Years Earlier_

They tell me he is special—different from other boys his age.

Naturally, that doesn't mean much to me. After all, Mum had gone on for months about how "different" I was when I was his age. But the doctor knew what my diagnosis was back then: a boy who thinks he knows too much. (He was only slightly wrong, however. I _do_ know too much.)

But this time it truly is different. He has no idea how to deal with Sherlock's brain.

I hear them discussing it in the room next over, they leave the door open just a crack. Mum is doing that loud whisper of hers, like she thinks no one else can hear her. The doctor replies in a low voice and I lean closer to listen.

_Autistic_, he supposes. _High-functioning. Perhaps Asperger's_. Mum isn't quite sure what that means, and she gasps.

_Will he be all right? What can we do to cure it?_

I can't be bothered to listen to their conversation anymore—especially when I know they're both wrong on so many accounts. There's so much more to my brother than that.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror on the doctor's desk. I'm tired. The part in my hair has gone askew, so I quickly fix it. I'm still not so sure why Mum insists that we dress so smart when we visit the doctor's office. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sherlock kicking his legs against the legs of the chair he's been sitting in for the last hour. I straighten my back, trying to set a good example.

"Mind your shoes, Sherlock," I say. "You'll scuff them if you keep that up."

Sherlock's legs stop moving for a few moments, but when his gaze returns to the vast shelves of books in the office, he continues. He must be bored. I know it when I see his tiny body slouch against the back of the chair.

"Mycroft," Sherlock drawls. "How much longer?"

"Can't be sure."

"I'm _bored_."

I smirk. He sounds positively drained. "No reason to lounge about like that," I mention as I wave a hand in his direction. He understands, and he sits up straight again. His grey eyes scan the room once more, and it is now I discover that he's actually looking for something. I try to ignore it at first, only to see if I can find what he's looking for. But when he jumps out of his seat and examines the walls, I raise my eyebrows at him, trying to impersonate Mum's best chastising face.

It doesn't work. I sigh audibly.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" I have to ask.

"I'm looking for where the doctor keeps his dog," the boy replies nonchalantly. My eyebrows crease and I let his words hang in the air for a moment. His dog? Why on Earth would a doctor keep a dog in the office? And how is Sherlock so certain that this man even owns one? Despite how strange it sounds, my brother continues to probe the walls, no doubt looking for some sort of secret dog compartment.

"His dog?" I ask. But now I'm curious. This is a better test than any of the ones that the doctor had conducted—all about tests, and numbers, and personality. No, this is far better. This way I can see into my brother's brain and see what makes him think. Perhaps even see if he thinks like I do. "Why would he have one in his office?"

Sherlock points to the curtains briefly, barely even looking at them. "He tied the curtains up," he says simply. "Rather well. Probably to keep them away from the dog."

"What about a cat?" I challenge, though I already know that's impossible. "Cats are a bigger threat to curtains than a dog would be, don't you think?" Sherlock says exactly what's on my mind in response.

"But cats can jump higher than a small dog," Sherlock mentions quickly, almost in frustration. He turns to the cabinet in the corner and nods his head at it. "And he didn't do anything about his fish. If he was concerned enough to tie up the curtains to keep a cat away, he should've covered the fish."

He continues to search the room, but he stops as he approaches the tall lamp.

"Look," he gushes. "He even tied up the cords here."

"So this 'dog' could also be a baby," I wonder aloud. Sherlock grimaces at the word. Sounds as plausible as the dog.

"I hope it isn't," he murmurs in disgust.

"The doctor did mention his wife. Perhaps they have a newborn."

"Babies don't meddle with _curtains_," Sherlock nearly spits. True enough, I think. They meddle with everything else.

After we spend more time deducing, we come to a conclusion. Somewhere in the office, the doctor keeps a small toy dog—long-haired and young. We also know that he doesn't trust it, or perhaps he doesn't even like it. I insist that it belongs to the wife, but Sherlock isn't so sure. At last, Mum and the doctor return after their long discussion in the other room. Mum puts Sherlock's coat on him and pats his cheek. He doesn't react.

"Ready to go, darlings?" she asks. I nod, but Sherlock doesn't. His entire demeanor has changed now that the doctor has entered the room again. He's reserved, guarded, and very inquisitive.

"I want to see the doctor's dog," he deadpans.

The doctor raises his eyebrows. "But I don't have a dog," he says simply.

I gauge Sherlock's reaction, but there isn't one on his face. I'm sure he's absolutely roiling on the inside, but I'll have to ask him later. However, the doctor doesn't stop there. He smiles, obviously in an attempt to get Sherlock to do the same.

"But, my next patient has a dog," he chuckles as he adjusts his glasses. "Nasty little bugger, that one. Yorkshire terrier. Always seems to get his legs tangled in everything."

I exchange brief glances with Sherlock, who looks amused with himself—a mix between pride and excitement. I'm glad that the entire endeavor pulled him out of his boredom.

Now, we call this our "deducing game."


	3. Classmates, Not Friends

The bus is an absolute disaster.

Sherlock and I agree to take it for the first week of school, at least, but Sherlock can barely stand the sight of it when we arrive at the stop. When the bus pulls over for the man standing next to us, he refuses to get on. Too many people, he insists. I tell him that we must catch the next one if we're to make it to school on time, but he is indignant. When the bus drives to the stop, I reach out my arm to flag it down. Sherlock pulls on my sleeve.

"I don't _want_ to take the bus," he says.

"Would you rather walk to school and be late?" I ask him. I keep my voice level so he doesn't think I'm angry. "Not a good first impression on your first day back to primary school, is it?"

"But there are so many people," he groans, loudly enough that the woman standing next to us took notice. I take my brother's hand (which happens to be the only one he'll take) and lead him onto the bus. I flash my photo ID at the bus driver and we step on, free of charge.

"Stand here, Sherlock."

My brother stands close to me as we pack on. A tall gentleman notices us board, and he stands up to let one of us sit. I show Sherlock to the seat, nodding my head at the man in the suit. After the bus makes a stop, the woman sitting next to my brother stands up, and I take her place.

"It smells," Sherlock says sullenly. His eyes dart to the back of the bus. "And someone is wearing very strong perfume."

"It's a man's perfume," I reply, quietly, with an amused smile. "It's called 'cologne.' He must be trying to impress someone."

My brother shrugs at my guess. Obviously not the deduction he had come to.

"Is your school close to mine?"

"Close enough," I say. I wonder if that's a comfort to him, or simply disappointing news. He only nods once, so I can't tell. "I can see you at break, if you like."

"No, it's fine."

When it is our stop, I push the button and get ready to get off the bus. We have to squeeze past a large group of people, much to Sherlock's dismay. I place my hands on his small shoulders and guide him through. Somehow, we make it to the pavement in one piece. I quickly snatch his hand in mind to make sure he isn't lost.

"Not so bad, was it?" I ask.

"That was awful," says Sherlock.

That will have to suffice, for now. I simply smile and take him through the large gates of his primary school.

Some of the other students recognize my brother from the previous year of school, and they wave to him. "Hello, Sherlock," one boy says hurriedly as he runs by. My brother stares directly at the ground and says nothing. "Have a good holiday, Sherlock?" another student asks. Sherlock glances up. He gives a small nod, and still says nothing.

It's almost like my brother has become a different boy at school. I can't seem to get him to stop talking at home, but he nearly passes for a mute boy when he is with his classmates. I stare after the other boys.

"Are they your friends, Sherlock?"

"Classmates," Sherlock corrects.

"Yes, I deduced that," I tell him jokingly. Before I let him walk to class, I glance over his uniform and tidy his jumper. Without thinking, I smooth down his mess of dark curls, and he bristles under my hand. I forget that he doesn't like it when I do that, but this time I can't help myself. "Be good, brother. I'll pick you up this afternoon."

"Mm-hm," he says quickly.

He hurries into the school without glancing back once.

* * *

Sherlock's break is in the middle of my second course. I sit next to the window, and I can see the kids filter outside for their first break before lunch. The school is close enough that I can barely make out Sherlock's figure when he slowly walks out of the building.

This is the year I hope that Sherlock manages to find at least one other boy to become friends with. I nearly sigh aloud when I realize that he has taken a seat against the gate, reading a book by himself. Is there no one in his class that enjoys reading as much as he does? Surely there is another boy—I think to myself—that might read with him during the break?

"Holmes," says my professor in a sharp voice.

I turn my head. I've been caught staring out the window.

"Yes, professor?"

"Read the next section, if you please."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

After the school day is over, I hurry down the block and find Sherlock waiting for me, patiently. His teacher is with him, thankfully. She recognizes me as I approach, "There's your brother, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Sherlock nods his head once to acknowledge her, though his eyes are still focused on the ground, before scurrying toward me. After we leave the primary school grounds and walk toward the bus stop, my brother seems to come alive with conversation. I smile to myself, and I wonder if he saves it all for me.

"I found a book on planets today," he tells me. He doesn't sound impressed.

"How did you like it?"

"There were so many facts," he sighs. "Most of them seemed useless."

"That's a shame," I reply. "What did you do at break, then?"

"I read the book. Didn't I say that?"

I frown, "You didn't talk with any of your classmates? Play games?" I try to hide the fact that I had actually peeked in on his break through my second course window earlier.

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows in confusion. He glances up at me briefly before staring at the pavement again. "They didn't ask me to join them," he explains. We walk on in silence for a few more paces, but when we arrive at the bus stop, he finishes his thought.

"I think I'd rather talk with you, anyway," he announces. Then he adds, jokingly, "Could I go to secondary school with you tomorrow, Mycroft?"

"You have to finish primary school first."

At this, he simply nods.

I flag down the next bus, and we board together.


End file.
